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| Just One More Minute Photo by Tracy Duran Tracy Duran Collection |
At first, no one notices the woman as she walks into the room. One might think she was one of the many lost spirits in this room; however she is the one who actually speaks to the spirits on behalf of the living. She patiently waits in the line to offer her condolences as she overhears the hushed tones and soft cries of grief. She's always had a hard time in these situations since she can feel everyone's emotions. Being empathetic, she can feel the sadness tenfold and it makes her body hurt. She can also feel the emotions of those whom passed on yet those emotions are equal parts happiness and sadness. Happy that they are not in pain and are able to see loved ones who previously passed away. Sad seeing their living loved ones crying for them.
“It's too bad these people don't realize that going to the other side isn't such a bad thing.” she thinks to herself. She is the only one in the room who knows the truth.
Every time she walks into a funeral parlor, she feels and smells what only certain mediums do. She feels the static energy and smells sulphur, reminding her of a burning Fourth of July sparkler. She rubs her arms to try to dissipate the static feeling. She tries to turn her mind off so she is not distracted by the other spirits trying to get her attention. Sometimes she wears ear buds with Procol Harum blasting to help keep the vibes blocked. Wearing earbuds at a funeral is not a good look however. One might think she could ignore anyone in her path but she can tell the difference between the living and the dead. The dead do not blink. While she waits, she keeps the song, “A Whiter Shade of Pale” in her head but she still hears, “She was so young,” “The doctors have no idea why she died; it was natural, if you can believe that,” “I'll bet that she committed suicide but no one is telling us.” She laughs to herself and some people stare at her for the indiscretion.
She gets closer to the person she is here to see, the young lady's husband Jeff. He is sitting by himself in an oversized chair, looking blankly toward the casket with his wife laying within. Some visitors come to him and place a hand on his shoulder. Some lightly squeeze with genuine affection; others offer an uneasy pat. None say a word but he understands their intent. The woman finally finds her moment to approach him.
“Very nice music. Was it Victoria's favorite?” she asks. Throughout the parlor, a soft, somber operetta is being played. Still staring blankly, Jeff says in a whispered tone as if to not disturb his bride: “Una Furtiva Lagrima.” It was one of her favorite songs.”
She places her hand on his shoulder and looks toward the beauty in the adorned casket. She says softly along to the haunting music, “The beating, the beating of her heart I could feel, to merge my sighs with hers...”
He slowly puts his head in his hands, then absently reply, “They told me not to play this because it's such a sad song. She always told me it was a good song. I never listened and I never cared. It was her thing, not mine. Now it's all gone. She's just...gone.”
